


Second Time Around

by breathtaken



Series: Mise en place [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, BDSM, Food, Multi, Non-Explicit Sex, Past Miscarriage, Polyamory, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 07:04:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18383417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: The two months that pass between the positive pregnancy test and the twelve-week scan are the longest of Constance's life.





	Second Time Around

**Author's Note:**

> **Content notes:** This fic is about experience of pregnancy following a past miscarriage.

The two months that pass between the positive pregnancy test and the twelve-week scan are the longest of Constance's life.

She hardly dares draw breath in case she miscarries again, tries to keep her head down and get through it day by day, as though fear isn’t tying a cold knot in her chest every waking moment; meanwhile d’Artagnan’s fretting over her constantly, and she knows she should be understanding but actually it makes her want to _scream._

She wants to pretend it isn’t happening – but after she fumbles and drops a full pan of onion soup half way through lunch service, cracking a floor tile in the process, blows up at d’Artagnan when he tries to help and then promptly bursts into tears, she realises that she _can’t._

She shakes off his touch and hurries upstairs, as Athos puts a hand on his arm, holding him back.

Sylvie is there to make tea, and to listen as she vents her frustrations. It’s good to talk to someone who isn’t treating her like she’s made of glass. Who even understands a little of how she’s feeling, even though their experiences of pregnancy are far from being similar: apart from the obvious, she never once saw Sylvie lose control of herself the way Constance has to fight against every single day.

She loves d’Artagnan – of course she does – but right now she doesn’t have room for his emotions as well as her own.

Sylvie sleeps with her that night, spooned up against her with one hand on her belly. It makes her feel calm, safe, as if she’s in the womb herself.

Three days later, they hear their baby’s heart beating for the first time.

D’Artagnan cries; all she can think is, with growing shock, _it’s actually happening._

 

* * *

 

She doesn’t know for certain which of them is the father, and while she thinks she’d rather not know, the baby’s skin colour will inevitably be their answer. They’ve agreed it will be d’Artagnan’s name on the birth certificate in any case.

It’s been less than a year since Athos and Sylvie returned, and six months since they went to bed together for the first time, but it feels eternal. Constance’s feelings for Athos still surprise her – not in their strength but in their depth, as though she’s discovered a rich seam of love within herself that had always been present, just awaiting the moment she actually thought to look for it. There’s none of the grand passion between them that he shares with d’Artagnan, but frankly she can’t imagine having the energy for it right now.

Things are... rough. She can’t believe she was _happy_ about this the first time around; it seems as though it must have happened to another person. She’s permanently hot and tired, everything gets on her nerves, and though she isn’t throwing up any more at least there’s still a constant low-level nausea that’s making it difficult to be in the kitchen, with its constant smell of red meat cooking in butter.

Two days after the pan incident, when she’s gagged twice during the first half hour of lunch service, she swallows her pride and tells d’Artagnan that she can’t do it at the moment. Thank God for Athos, at least they don’t have to get someone else in to cover, but she’s angry with herself for being useless and angry with herself for _feeling_ useless when she’s busy growing a baby for God’s sake, which is more important to all of them even than the restaurant.

She ends up sulking in the bedroom, half-watching episodes of _Chef’s Table_ on Netflix, half-wanting to go out just to get away from them all even though her legs feel like lead and her head’s aching steadily beneath her temples.

She tenses when there’s a knock on the door just after three.

Athos lets himself in, kicks his shoes off and sits down beside her on the bed. He smells like the kitchen, and she has to take a few deep breaths through her mouth until she gets used to it.

He puts his arm around her and she rests her head on his shoulder, and neither of them say a word.

 

* * *

 

Their two bedrooms are at opposite ends of the flat, but some noises – like the slap of leather on skin – still carry.

In the darkness, Constance bites her lip.

Beside her Athos is breathing deep and steady, and can be of no help.

The way she feels about this is... complicated.

It’s okay, that she’s not the only one who can meet her husband’s needs. Good, even, because it’s not like she wants that right now anyway.

According to both Sylvie and the internet, your sex drive is supposed to spike during the first trimester, but that particular quirk of pregnancy seems to have passed her by. She barely wanted anyone to touch her at all, in any way, just in case.

She doesn’t know if she’s crossed the line between encouraging d’Artagnan to get his needs met with Athos and Sylvie and pushing him into it, but the fact that she’s even thinking it means that she probably did.

They’re having a child together, and she’s never felt more distant from him.

And now suddenly really fucking aroused, for the first time since this started.

There’s a vibrator in her bedside drawer, but she baulks at doing that with Athos lying right beside her, even if he’s dead to the world.

She can imagine what’s happening in the other bedroom all too easily. She’s seen it, back in the early, heady days before she missed her period, holding d’Artagnan down as he shuddered and writhed, locking eyes with Sylvie, the wicked curve of her smile –

Constance’s hands clench in the duvet.

 _Come on, this is_ not _helping._

Instead she gets up, and makes a cup of tea.

She’s sitting at the kitchen table, watching the steam curl lazily up into the air, when Sylvie comes in, wearing d’Artagnan’s T-shirt, knickers, and nothing else. She falters in the doorway when she sees Constance.

“I hope we didn’t keep you up?”

“Oh, no. I just couldn’t sleep. It’s the baby,” Constance lies, though even to her own ears it sounds unconvincing.

Sylvie’s smile tells her she’s not fooled, though all she says as she pours a glass of water is, “Well, you’re always welcome to join us.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Constance replies, though when Sylvie gives her a jaunty little wave as she leaves, her smile is real.

A few moments later she hears the door closing, and wraps her hands around her mug, preparing for a long night.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Constance forces herself to join Sylvie when she takes Aurelie to the park. She barely slept and she feels like she’s been chewed up and spat out, but at least then she isn’t sitting upstairs thinking about how she isn’t downstairs.

It’s not even midday but it’s already getting hot, and she curses herself for a moment for getting pregnant over summer before immediately feeling awful for daring to take any of this for granted, when her greatest fear had been that it would never even happen.

Aurelie’s just about big enough now to go on the swings and the little roundabout, and squeals with delight every time she gets a push. She’s about the only person who isn’t getting on Constance’s nerves at the moment just by existing.

“Could you and d’Artagnan babysit on Monday evening? Athos and I are seriously overdue a date night.”

“Yeah, of course,” Constance replies, and tries not to think about how long it’s been since she and d’Artagnan last had a date night, or whose fault that actually is.

“Wonderful, thank you so much.” Sylvie lifts Aurelie out of the swing seat, rocking her a little when she protests. “How are you feeling?”

Constance grimaces. “Ugh. Tired. Though I don’t feel sick today, which makes a nice change.”

“Good. D’Artagnan thinks you’re angry with him.”

The sudden change of subject throws her – and she glances up sharply, but can’t read Sylvie’s expression behind her sunglasses.

She says, “It’s not that simple.”

“It never is.” Sylvie’s smile is as warm as her words are blunt. “And I know you’ve had a hard few months. But Athos and I can’t be what you are to him. You need to let him back in.”

Constance grits her teeth and doesn’t lash out, doesn’t say _it could all still come crashing down,_ or, _what do you know, when you’ve never felt like this?_

“I know,” she says instead, and feels her throat grow dangerously thick when Sylvie presses her free hand against Constance’s arm.

 

* * *

 

Of course, Monday evening comes around before she’s remotely ready for it.

It’s stupid. She loves him no less than she always has.

But she’s felt for weeks like she’s carrying something dark and ugly around in her chest, and it’s a constant struggle to contain it.

She retreats to the kitchen before Athos and Sylvie leave, declaring her intention to make beetroot curry. She’s been craving spicy food for days, and at least if she’s the one doing the cooking then she doesn’t have to feel guilty if it turns out she can’t actually finish it.

It’s good to be doing something: peeling and julienning beets, their colour blooming magenta over her fingers, chopping onion while mustard seeds and curry leaves sizzle in the pan. She _loves_ cooking, and always has: she love making something delicious and nourishing, and sharing it with the ones she loves.

And it’s so easy to lose sight of that when you run a restaurant and can spend days on end making the same three dishes over and over to order with fifty people waiting and your head chef shouting and you’re just trying as hard as you can not to fuck anything up. When you’re competent but not truly talented, and can’t match Athos’ sheer technical brilliance or d’Artagnan’s creative flair, and can never quite forget it either.

In Constance’s kitchen, there’s no coulis or demi-glace, no clattering or cursing or pressure of time; there’s just her and her rules, and nobody else to answer to. She doesn’t even set a mise en place, just digs things out of the cupboard thirty seconds before she’s going to need them, chops while she stirs and lets her timings slide in a way that would be unthinkable downstairs, minced garlic and ginger and two green chillies split lengthways, seeds and all, smelling absolutely divine.

She mixes in her powdered spices and salt, stirs to coat, reserves a tablespoon of the onion mixture and sets it aside before adding the beets and coconut milk, stirring until everything turns the same deep pink as her fingers did.

She brings the pan to the boil, turns the heat down and puts the lid on, and once it’s simmering away happily she sets a timer, then goes over to the doorway – and stops.

D’Artagnan is sitting on the living room floor with Aurelie, tickling her ribs as she shrieks with pleasure. He’s grinning back at her, a lock of hair falling into his eyes, and Constance thinks in a rush, the two thoughts crashing into each other, almost one: _he looks so happy_ and _he’ll be such a great father._

Suddenly she can’t hold it in any more.

His face falls as he sees hers – though her vision’s rapidly blurring, and she leans against the door jamb and tries not to crumple entirely as her chest starts to heave.

A moment later he’s there, arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, guiding her to the sofa. “ _Constance._ ” He sounds stricken. “Talk to me, love, please.”

As usual, the moment has come before she has the words ready to meet it; and at first she just looks at him with her eyes and nose streaming, and has to ask herself, _what do I feel?_

“I’m scared,” she whispers, and buries her face in his shoulder, letting him rock her, and for the first time since she found out she was pregnant again, not trying to fight it any more.

“This is better, you know,” d’Artagnan says at length, holding her fast, safe. “I’d rather have you crying on me than keeping on trying to put a brave face on things.” He kisses the top of her head. “You want to know what the worst thing I’ve thought is? That I’m not man enough because I couldn’t get you pregnant.” He laughs, though she can tell it’s forced. “It’s so stupid. It shouldn’t even make the list of things I should be caring about.”

Constance pulls back so she can look him in the eye. “This is _our_ baby. Yours and mine. No matter the biology.”

“See? I told you it was stupid.” He takes her hand in his, thumb tracing back and forth over her wedding ring. “Now what’s the worst thing you’ve thought? Come on, tell me. Let it out.”

Her throat closes up.

“You’ve been learning from Sylvie,” she accuses weakly.

“No I haven’t, I’m just better at this than you are. Don’t think I can’t see you trying to wriggle out of it.”

“Fine. That I’m scared – I won’t love it,” she says in a rush, and watches her husband frown in confusion, his mouth falling a little open. “Maybe I don’t want to. Just in case it happens again.”

“Oh, my love.” D’Artagnan pulls her in close again, stroking her hair; just past his shoulder she can see Aurelie, rolling around on the floor with her favourite stuffed tiger, dark eyes shining as she burbles to herself. “I can’t promise you that it won’t. But our chances are so, _so_ good. You’re almost fourteen weeks now, that’s past the high-risk period. And we already have proof that Athos’ sperm works.”

She’s surprised to find herself laughing, even though it’s weak.

“Is this why you’ve not been talking to me?”

“I’m sorry. I was trying to keep it together.” She doesn’t say, _and I couldn’t cope with you too._

“You don’t need to do that alone, okay? Lean on me. And we’ll lean on each other. Promise?”

“Okay. Promise,” she agrees, pressing her face into his shoulder and closing her eyes, wondering what she’s done to deserve such fierce, generous love.

A moment later, Aurelie yells, “Uncle Danny!”, and Constance can’t help smiling.

“She wants her ‘Uncle Danny’,” she says, giving him a gentle shove, and privately resolving not to teach her to say d'Artagnan's actual name for as long as she possibly can. “She's getting to that age, isn't she.”

“Where she needs to be the centre of attention at absolutely all times? I look forward to it,” d'Artagnan jokes, moving back down to the floor. “Hello, trouble. What are you up to?”

“Paw-paw,” Aurelie says, advancing the tiger towards d'Artagnan, and Constance gets up to put the rice on as the game continues.

She still doesn't quite dare look at Aurelie and think about the future, just in case.

When they go to bed that night, she climbs on top of d'Artagnan and presses her body along the length of his, and when he makes a noise of surprise, thinks, _if you say anything about hurting the baby I'll scream._

He runs his hands up her sides to frame her face, and doesn't say a word.

 

* * *

 

After that, she tries a thought experiment.

When Athos and d'Artagnan go downstairs after breakfast, she kisses them both in turn and then goes back to the story she’s reading Aurelie, and tells herself, _don’t pretend it isn't happening, when it is._

Maybe she can't cook right now, but she isn't useless. She has things to do, whether that's helping Aurelie learn about the world or making sure Sylvie gets to have some adult conversation, or even just keeping the flat in some semblance of order.

In the end they go down to the dining room half an hour before doors open, and she tells Sylvie a little of what she knows. They'll never make a chef of her – she cheerfully claims she can burn water – but there will definitely be some work front of house for her if she wants it, even if it’s only for an hour or two during the rush.

When later that day she walks in on Athos and Sylvie, embracing with Aurelie held between their bodies, the picture of the perfect family, and feels a wave of jealousy so sudden and overwhelming that she's almost as disgusted at herself as she is resentful of them, she grits her teeth and insists, _don’t pretend it isn't happening, when it is._

She loves them all, so much, and it hurts to look at them all the same.

She sleeps beside d'Artagnan for a full week, the longest she has in one stretch since this new relationship started, and tries her hardest not to show that some days she wishes he wouldn't be so happy.

_You're fifteen weeks pregnant. Don’t pretend you're not._

She _hates_ this.

The most important thing she's ever done, and she's never had less control.

But d'Artagnan can sense her moods, it seems, as he rolls over, nuzzling her neck. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” she says automatically, and then, “I feel... like a bad person sometimes.”

“Why is that, love?”

“You're so _happy._ And I'm just – pissed off about everything all the time.”

“Well, you're doing all the hard work at the moment,” d'Artagnan points out, annoyingly reasonable. “If you don’t feel well then that's going to affect your mood. And you have all these hormones flying around as well.”

Constance fights the urge to argue with him just for the sake of it. Nothing he's said is untrue; and she has no real reason not to be happy, when their baby has made it past the high-risk first trimester. No reason not to believe.

The truth is that she still doesn't _want_ to get attached. That she doesn't think she could bear it a second time.

“Just take it one day at a time,” d'Artagnan murmurs, his hand resting lightly on her belly, as if he's trying to give the baby his strength that way. “You don’t need to worry about what's going to happen yet. Let's just take it as it comes, and try not to freak out.”

“I don’t think I really believe it,” she whispers, lacing her fingers into his. “That we're going to have a child.”

“Hey. It's okay. I promise. This little one will prove it to us.”

 

* * *

 

It's... working. She thinks.

Living in the moment has never been her strong suit, but it becomes significantly more attractive when the alternative is worse.

D'Artagnan was right: she doesn't have to deal with everything that’s coming just yet. Only the things that are; and the trick is letting them be.

She spends almost as much time with Aurelie as Sylvie does. She starts taking a siesta after lunch. One evening she makes a massaman curry so potent that Sylvie cuts hers fifty-fifty with yoghurt, and even d'Artagnan grimaces.

She still wants to scream every now and then, and in the next breath lock herself away where she can't do any more damage, so it's not perfect. But it _is_ better.

The temperature's still rising, and she knows it’ll only get worse: even naked with nothing but a sheet over her she still can't sleep, and after an hour and a half she stops trying, pulls on knickers and a camisole and closes the bedroom door behind her, and sits on the sofa in the dark because she's fed up of her skin sticking to the kitchen chairs, with her feet in a bowl of cold water.

She puts her hands on her belly. She's starting to feel it now, round and hard beneath the skin, muscles aching as they’re stretched. She could see it in the mirror this morning, and froze in indecision for a few moments, torn between wonder and fear.

Her baby's been trying to make itself felt for months, and she's been trying so hard _not_ to feel –

She looks up as the door to the other bedroom opens, revealing Athos.

He looks down at her feet in the washing up bowl, and smiles. “Can't sleep, I take it.”

She sighs, rubbing the back of her neck. It's sweaty already, and she wishes she'd thought to put her hair up. “I'm surprised anyone can. I feel like I'm about to combust.”

“Can I get you anything?”

She thinks quickly. “Food bag clip?”

Athos looks bemused, but does as she asks – and she can see understanding dawn as she takes the clip and uses it to put her hair in a ponytail.

He's brought her a glass of iced water and a damp tea towel too, which he lays over the back of her neck, making her shudder in pleasure.

“Oh, you clever man,” she murmurs, closing her eyes for a moment and just savouring the delicious coolness. “That feels amazing.”

He sits down beside her. “Sylvie used to like that when she was pregnant.” He pauses, and then, “D'Artagnan's looking happier.”

She opens her eyes.

When she turns her head he’s returning her gaze steadily, raising one eyebrow.

Well. She supposes they know each other too well for any kind of pretence.

Was that what ‘date night’ was about, then?

“Yeah. We talked.” _Like you both wanted._ “It was – overdue.”

Athos regards her levelly, and all he says is, “Good.”

He's never been in the habit of telling her things she already knows, after all.

For a moment she's struck by how different they are, these two men of hers: d'Artagnan’s love all generous demonstration; Athos’ the generosity of his silence.

D'Artagnan's always open in his need – but she's never asked what Athos needs from her, if anything.

Throughout the turbulence of this pregnancy, her moments with him have been a haven, where she made no demands and received none in return; it’s only now she realises that she's carrying his child – well she isn't but she _is_ – and she's never once asked him how he feels.

Well, she can upbraid herself for it – or she can fix it.

She watches his expression carefully as she asks, but he doesn’t seem surprised.

“I don’t know,” he says eventually, taking a sip of her water. “Assuming it’s even my biological material... it's still yours and d'Artagnan's child. That was my gift to you. But I won't truly know how it feels until the baby's born. And then I think we'll all need to have a conversation, regarding how we're going to raise our children. Together.”

“Yes. Agreed.”

That's the crux, isn't it? They're in this together, and any child of hers and d'Artagnan's is going to be as much a part of Athos and Sylvie's hearts as Aurelie already is of Constance's.

“I'm still scared,” she makes herself say, and Athos presses a hand over hers, on top of her bump.

“You're strong enough. You've proven that over and over.”

 

* * *

 

The next day, the heat breaks at last: she has a headache all morning but puts that down to the baby, so it catches her by surprise when wind starts to whip past the windows at around four in the afternoon, and then the first fat raindrops start to fall; by five thirty the rain is coming down in sheets and they can barely hear each other speak over the thunder.

She worries that Aurelie will be scared, but she watches at the window wide-eyed, pressing her nose against the glass with Paw-Paw the tiger held up so he can watch too. Constance shares a look with Sylvie as she threads a hand into her daughter’s dark curls, and they watch together as the sky turns purple.

Later Constance makes them noodle soup with egg, smoked tofu, shiitake and the pickled daikon radish she’s been experimenting with. She can’t resist eating a good few spoonfuls straight out of the jar as she’s assembling the bowls, humming in pleasure at the sweet-sharp assault on her senses.

She’s finding an upside to being unable to cook downstairs: now she has the time and the energy to try all the things that have been in the back of her mind for months, or even years, things that don’t fit within the constraints of a traditional French kitchen. She’s as classically-trained as any of them but more and more she’s seduced by a new fresh heat, vegetable-heavy, sour and sweet, that doesn’t rely on meats or butter-rich sauces to pack a punch.

They eat at the kitchen table with the overhead lights off, slurping noodles in silence as lightning flashes on the horizon, and she thinks about the menu downstairs, barely altered since John put it together all those years ago, and whether it’s time to take a second look at it. Whether Athos and d’Artagnan will be ready to accept that.

John’s legacy will always be important to them, but they don’t have to stand still, or keep within constraints that no longer serve them. She hopes their whole lives can be proof of that.

“When’s your scan?” Sylvie asks apropos of nothing, and Constance has to think  about it for a moment.

“Next Monday.”

“Excited?”

“Hmm.” Strangely enough, she finds that she’s smiling. “Actually, maybe I am.”

 _I’m going to be a mother,_ she thinks, and for the first time since she found out, the idea of it doesn’t fill her with a blank, yawning terror.

Shortly after eleven d'Artagnan and Athos come upstairs, this time with a cheese board tucked under d'Artagnan's arm, a generous chunk of Morbier and a small jar of quince confit, pilfered from the kitchen. It’s become an occasional ritual, when there’s something good left over at the end of an evening, and Constance knows the primal pleasure of it for them all is as much in sharing with the people they love as in the eating of it.

She feels expectation in the air tonight: the rain has tapered off to a drizzle, but the clouds in the dark sky are still heavy, broody, threatening to break open once again.

Or it could be the spark of new life inside her, slowly coming into being, that she’s feared for so long and is teetering on the edge of falling heavily, irreparably in love with.

Or it’s the way Sylvie and d’Artagnan are looking at each other across the kitchen table, heavy with meaning; and she remembers Sylvie’s offer from weeks ago as she catches d’Artagnan’s eye and says, “Yes,” before anything’s even been proposed.

Athos smiles, already repressing a yawn. “You three take the king-size, and I’ll take the baby monitor. I’m worn out.”

D’Artagnan leans across the table and kisses him, swift and heartfelt. “You’ll need your strength for tomorrow night.”

Half an hour later, Constance follows d’Artagnan into Athos and Sylvie’s bedroom. She doesn’t sleep in here very often, and she can’t even remember the last time she had sex, and the nerves are starting to kick in –

But this is d’Artagnan. Her husband, who she feels safer with than anyone, who’s turning to her and taking her in his arms, and kissing her with an urgency she knows she’d never forget, however long it might have been.

“Love you,” he mutters between kisses, “want you, so much –”

“Good,” she replies, putting both hands on his arse and pulling him in against her thigh until he groans, “because I plan to rail you into the middle of next week.”

As Constance is pulling d’Artagnan’s T-shirt over his head she hears the door open and close behind her, feels cool hands on her hips and the press of lips against her shoulder as Sylvie says, “Started without me?”

Constance meets d’Artagnan’s eyes, and returns his grin.

She answers for them both: “We wouldn’t dream of it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Constance is making [Anna Jones' beetroot curry with spiked cottage cheese](https://www.meatfreeweek.org/recipes/beetroot-curry-with-spiked-cottage-cheese).
> 
> The first time they couldn’t decide who was going to sleep where, Sylvie got them to roll a dice for it. Now, they do it for fun.
> 
> Paw-Paw the tiger was (of course) a gift from Porthos.


End file.
